


Temple of Thought

by shepherd



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: AU- Game of Thrones, Abuse, Arranged Marriage, Cultural Differences, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shepherd/pseuds/shepherd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hobbit/Game of Thrones AU, following the story of Daenerys Targaryen and Khal Drogo. No knowledge of Game of Thrones needed. In an attempt to gain Bag End for themselves, the Sackville-Bagginses sell Bilbo off to the nomadic dwarves and their king. What follows is a story of love, resentment, murder and ultimately, loss. Some trigger warnings in the notes. DISCONTINUED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temple of Thought

**Author's Note:**

> Written for laughxoutxloud94 on tumblr, having requested the scene with Dany and Drogo in season 2 of Game of Thrones. I hope she enjoys it!  
> There will be some potential triggers in this fic, most specifically in this chapter abuse, a character suffering from alzheimers and depending on how you view it, self harm.

_Once, Bilbo Baggins was a simple hobbit. who spent the days he thought would never end always smiling. He gave himself wholly to the pleasures of life- rich foods, heavy tomes full of valiant deeds and curious creatures, laughter, sharing stories and spending time with his dearest mother._

_Once._

_The dark earth under his bare feet is moist, seeping between his toes and squishing softly. It’s wet with rain water, blood, and his freshly fallen tears. The bards might tell stories of this, he thinks, of him and the tears he shed on the battlefield for his family. Him, the abandoned lover. The spurned would-be king with the braids in his hair. His chest shudders and he sucks in noisy, laboured breaths. Hopefully, the ballads might make him out to be much more graceful and courageous. Bards tend to have a penchant for lying, or exaggerating, he thought with a bitter smile. His wounds sting. They’re mainly cuts and scratches across his face- along his nose, on his cheek, one above his eyebrow, almost blinding him with a trail of thick blood. His palms are grazed and filthy, and there are grooves and blisters and pulsing, aching burns all along his feet. Bilbo’s body is the epitome of pain, and his heart is a twisted, mangled mess._

_Today, his small and lithe body is a blessing. He can pad silently along the ground, and he can smother himself in the shadow and the darkness. He keeps his head down as he glides, wraithlike, past a group of strangers who used to be his friends. They don’t notice him, absorbed in their own ills and pains. He can hear the cries of the wounded and shouted commands. He thinks he hears Dwalin’s voice booming across the land, embittered and exhausted, and Bilbo almost sobs._

_They had reclaimed Erebor, slain Smaug the Terrible, and a good many dwarves had successfully avoided incineration, lacerations, all the rest. The dwarves were home now, back where they belonged, but simply taking in the devastation and lamenting what the had lost made Bilbo wander if returning to The Lonely Mountain was truly the right choice._

_The battle was won. And yet it was lost._

_And now he knew he had to leave them all behind- the living, the dead, and the dying. He’s not sure what screams louder- his wounds or his heart._

_As he limps along, a little hobbit lost in the dance of flames and shadow, a tune returns to his chapped lips; Gentle mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray…_

-o-o-o-o-o-

The circlet of flowers that adorned Bilbo’s head was beautiful, and in any other circumstance, any other time, he would have been overjoyed to have the honour to wear it. It was a light and gentle weight, threading into his curls with ease. The soft powder blue of the forget-me-nots stood out against the honey colour of his hair, and if Bilbo stared into a looking glass he might have smiled, laughed, and jested that he looked quite charming.

But now was not the time for jokes, laughter or smiles. The thread of the circlet itched unbearably, agitating his sensitive scalp, and the sweet aroma of the pretty flowers is sickening in Bilbo’s nose. The rich bouquets dotted around the room are too much, making the whole room smell like a funeral was taking place. He wanted to tear the damn thing off- to tear the petals off one by one, crush the flower heads in his palm, or simply throw it against the wall- and scream at the unfairness and the barbarity of it all. There were so many things he wanted to do, all of them fuelled by anguish, terror and hatred. He felt sick to his stomach and his throat was tight. He knew he should have eaten last night, and this morning, but his belly was for too queasy for that. He knew he’d be incapable of keeping the tiniest nibble of bread down.

Thousands of words battled to slip free of his lips- pleas, complaints, reassurances, curses. They fought valiantly, but he quashed them, one by one until he were free enough to force a tiny, thin smile onto his lips. He dimly realized through his plethora of extreme emotions that his grip on his mother’s hand had long surpassed comfort and kindness. With some struggle, he loosened his fingers, and his white knuckles slowly regained their colour.

Oblivious, blind to Bilbo’s plight and numb to his harsh touch, Belladonna Baggins’ sunny smile remained. She was sitting up in her bed, her rich silken bed sheets pooling around her waist and her thick, delightful pillows against her back, keeping her comfortable and propped up. The light of the days dying sun shone through the open window, bathing her in golden light and catching her dark, glossy hair. The sky outside seemed to burn red and pink. He sat at her side, watching silently in his turmoil. His mother was beautiful, he had always known that. He had been told many times as a small child, by both his father and other adults in the Shire that she was a star, vibrant and gorgeous. He hadn’t really understood until he was older, but his father was nought but persistent. He always balanced Bilbo on his rather uncomfortable knees and bounced him playfully in front of the ornate fireplace in the living room, telling him all about the woman they both loved, gesturing to the oil portrait above the fireplace that he had commissioned of her before the boy had been born. Now, years and years later, her face had age carved into it, but the frown lines crossing her forehead and the deep laughter lines on her cheeks only served to make her more beautiful to him.

But now she lacked something that the painting had, something important. The delicate piece of art had captured her in her vibrant youth. She still had the grin, the grace, the beauty, despite the silver streaks in her raven feather hair and the crow’s feet around her eyes. She had aged gracefully- it was undeniable. But she lacked the vivid, dancing, playful mischief in her eyes. The painting was wondrously life like- many a time Bilbo wondered how the artist had managed it- and served as a reminder of how great Belladonna Baggins nee Took used to be.

Now, her eyes no longer shone. The warmth and the wickedness had long since gone, even though the sweet smile remained. Now they were mostly plain and weakened, but always touched with confusion and careful cautiousness. Even when faced with her son, the one she had borne, cared for, raised to be a gentle hobbit- there was no recognition in her once emotive grass green eyes. Only bewilderment. Watching his mother’s mind slowly deteriorate as years trickled by like sips of water hurt beyond anything Bilbo had ever felt before. And it was all coming to a head now- the end days were approaching.

Despite this, she was smiling now, her hand resting palm upwards, allowing her hand to be held in his. It seemed that ignorance really was bliss. He wanted to lock his fingers with hers, as a mother and son should touch hands, but he didn’t want to unnerve her with a gesture too familiar. He was content with this, for now. She hummed, softly and carefully, and looked him up and down appraisingly, a dark, groomed eyebrow lightly arching.

“Your clothing,” She spoke, her voice smooth like velvet and sparked with curiosity. She tilted her head to one side. “That circlet…. Your bracelets.” She knew them, and rightly so. She had her own clothing, just like his own, hidden and tucked away in the wardrobe.

Bilbo almost choked on his next few words, but he persevered. He tried to cover up his nerves and shoved his panic into submission. “Do you recognise it, mother?” He smiled unsteadily, his thin lips pressed tight.

“Yes,” She said slowly, a little uncertain. Bilbo wondered if she was alarmed by his revelation of mother- one he was forced to make several times a day. She frowned. “I’m sure I’ve seen it before- I’m sure it’s very important.”

Forgetting.

Bilbo had expected many things in his life- typical things, things that everyone experiences. The good and bad, beautiful and painful. Moving away from home, the birth of children, and always death. He had come to terms with the fact of death as best as he could- as best as anyone could- when he was younger. He anticipated and dreaded these things, but he had never expected his mother to forget. She was a strong woman, a warrior in finery, and Took blood blazed in her veins, feeding her passion and the bravery of a barbarian. Most hobbits thought she was odd, simply because she was unafraid. She was different- but better in Bongo and Bilbo Baggins’ eyes. Despite the hobbits of The Shire’s hesitation and the way they often gossiped about her behind their hands, they had still asked her to be their Chief. Despite the way she knew they mocked her, she accepted, knowing they needed a clever, quick hobbit to lead them. She knew she was the one for the job. The strong, sharp-tongued woman only wanted what was best for her family and her community.

But she wasn’t so clever or so quick anymore, with those confused eyes. She was fragile now, although she’d never admit it. She was fading fast, and the Sackville-Bagginses were quick to take advantage of that fact.

Bilbo’s belly quivered with remembered rage and despair, and he huffed out a slow breath. “Very important,” He confirmed, his voice hushed. His fingertips ghosted against the warm skin of his empty mother’s hand. “This is engagement garb, mother.”

Those green eyes widened in delight, “You’re to be engaged? That’s wonderful.”

No. It wasn’t wonderful. He wanted to kick and scream and smash things, cling to the husk of his mother and refuse to let go.

“Yes, it is.” Bilbo’s teeth split the skin of his lower lip, but his sense of taste was dull. He tasted no blood as he lied easily. “The wedding is to be within the week, if I am accepted.” The gods were cruel if it would be so. “It’s a shame you won’t be there to witness it, mother.”

“Will I not?” Disappointment clouded her eyes and her lips pointed downwards. “Am I busy? Can I not cancel it? You’re my…my…” She trailed off, her brows narrowing as she thought, hunting for a long gone memory and forgotten knowledge.

Son.

Bilbo struggled to keep up his strained smile. Blood blossomed in his mouth. “Your son.” He reminded her as calmly and gently as possible. “Your only son, mother. You’re too ill to come- the physician tells us you need to stay abed and rest.”

“Curse that man,” she spat bitterly. “I seem to be spending my entire life in this bed. That, I know.”

He wanted to say something calming and soft, touch her cheek reassuringly or stroke her unruly, knotted hair. He refrained. “I don’t think it will be much longer. Soon, you’ll be back on your feet. The Shire has fallen apart without you.” He managed a faint, lifeless jest. “The livestock have escaped and are running amok.”

“The Shire?” Belladonna’s voice was mystified.

“Home, mother. You live here. You lead The Shire.”

“Oh,” She spoke simply, and a silence was born between them. For a long moment, there was simply the sound of birds trilling shrilly outside the open window, the sounds of happy hobbit voices calling out eager ‘good evenings’ and the steady, constant ticking of the great grandfather clock in the corner. Time marched on- and Bilbo was squandering it all.

He hardened his heart and carefully cleared his throat. “Mother,” he began. She shot him a questioning glance and hummed softly. He didn’t know if she remembered anything he just told her-it was unlikely- but there were things he needed to say. And quickly. “Mother, when I’m gone- if I’m married.” He hurriedly elaborated. “I won’t be living in the Shire anymore.”

I’m being sent away. I’m not needed.

“I’ll be leaving afterwards, and living with my,” he held back his flinch at the next word, poisonous and heady in his mouth. “My husband. I likely won’t return often.”

Likely not before she’s cold and deep in the dark wet ground, a dark, nasty little voice purred.

“I’ll be here during the week- they just want to see if my husband might like me first- but this may well be the last time we see one another, for a very long time.” He tried his best, but within the minute his eyes are wet with unfallen tears. “I’ll miss you- I’m sorry I have to go.” He almost wipes his eyes with the long, puffy sleeves of his soft white tunic but he catches himself a split second beforehand. He lets his tears fall, and dribble down his flushed, rounded cheeks. His hand trembled as his temples ached with the pressure of attempting to, and failing, to hold back his tears.

His mother may not have been as sharp as she once was, but she was no fool. She could recognise her situation -albeit temporarily- and wasn’t blind to her son’s distressed tears. She shifted in her seat; leaning forward and grasping the hobbit’s hand in both of hers. Her dark, silver streaked hair fell across her forehead at the movement. Her hands were thin and cold, but Bilbo took comfort in her gesture. He sniffed and the tears kept falling, rolling down his cheeks and dripping down onto her quilts. “…Son.” She said hesitantly. Bilbo wondered if she could remember his name. “When you’re married, you’ll have other duties. Another family, too. Being wed is something beautiful. It’s usually the start of a new life.” She smiled, and dimples bloomed on her cheeks. “The start of an adventure.”

He could only summon a tiny, faintly wheezy laugh. “I never shared your passion for adventures.” He reminded her. “I’m a Baggins. Of Bag End. Not a Took.”

“I’m not going to pretend I know what a Took is.” She said, sternly. “But with that attitude, you’ll never be one.”

This time, Bilbo’s laugh was gentle but genuine. There was the mother he remembered, hidden away under the confusion and the disease but still strong, still capable of taking over. “I suppose that’s true.” His mother smiled, seemingly delighting in his laugh. Her mind had deteriorated, a disease ravaging her mind, but she was still self aware, and even sometimes, albeit rarely, seemed to remember.

She opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to scold, perhaps to encourage, but a noise interrupted her.

There was a soft creak, the sound of a door being pushed open behind them and the heavy, familiar thug- the sound of heavy foot falls stomping on the wooden floor. Belladonna’s eyes flickered away from her son, and narrowed cautiously at the intruder. Bilbo turned, dreading the sight he knew was awaiting him, and he barely withheld a shudder at Otho Sackville-Bagginses presence.

Not now. Please, not now, don’t take me away yet.

Otho grinned at them, shoving his hands roughly into the pockets of his waistcoat. He had clearly been forced to change into his more formal gear- Lobelia would never have dared show him in front of Bilbo’s potential suitor while he looked like he usually did- wearing filth stained shirts and waistcoats, dirtied from his hobbies of fishing and gardening. “Good morning.” He greeted, humour dancing in his eyes. From behind him came a self righteous ‘hmm!’

While Belladonna had aged gracefully, like a fine wine, both of the Sackville-Baggins certainly had not. They looked dreadfully old, and a life full of bitter complaints, jealously and fury had left it’s mark on their skin. It was awfully wrinkled and pale, like it was too little flesh stretched over too much muscle and bone. Bilbo didn’t look for too long, only taking in the barest minimum before turning his head away and lowering his gaze demurely. He knew if he looked too long at the two hobbits who were determined to ruin him, he’d be overwhelmed with either rage or despair.

Lobelia’s mouth, usually set downwards in a sour scowl, was curved in a wicked little grin today, and once again she clutched a fistful of silver spoons in one of her incredible claw like hands. Her addiction to his mother’s wealth was the bane of his life. Belladonna made no notice of the cutlery. But Lobelia quickly shoved them into her husband’s chest, forcing him to yank his hands out of his pockets and grab them before they clattered to the floor. She breezed across the room, her shirts billowing around her legs. The female hobbit eased herself down onto the bed, the mattress sagging heavily with her added weight. She smoothed down her admittedly pretty dress, specially made for the occasion. It was a vibrant yellow, and she wore a brown woollen cardigan over it. A old family heirloom, a bronze brooch, fastened it closed. It’s charming beauty was wasted on her. “Chatting to your son, are we?” She asked brightly, beaming with joy and excitement.

Disturbed by her entrance, Belladonna was tense. “Yes.” She said. “Discussing his engagement.”

Lobelia’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, yes, we’ve been looking forward to this for many a day. Haven’t we, Otho?” She beamed at her husband, who still stood in the doorway, immovable. He was as bitter as ever, but he had made an effort. His dark, greying hair had been swept to one side and he wore his best, most expensive clothing- an emerald green waistcoat over a crisp white undershirt, and dark brown breeches. All the hobbits were, naturally, barefoot. He didn’t smile, not even at the prospect of ridding himself of his cousin, but he nodded solemnly. Barely suppressed rage and hatred bubbled in the hobbit’s heart.

“Bilbo may be wed within the,” She halted, trying to recall the escaping memory. “The week?”

“Yes, it was ever so good of you to find him a suitable partner.” The hobbit woman almost went for Bella’s other hand, but the matron pulled it away- fast enough to get away, but slowly enough for it to seem casual. Lobelia pretended it never happened, instead patting the quilt next to Bella’s leg. “You searched so long for a husband, just so your son would be happy. I wasn’t sure about it at first, but I suppose you know best. A mother’s instinct. I am the exact same with Lotho.”

Bella’s eyes turned to Bilbo. “Did I find him for you?”

“Yes.” He wouldn’t have been surprised if his tongue turned black with lies. “Thank you, mother. I hope he finds me to his liking.

Valar, no.

“Odd.” Bella spoke, slowly, as if tasting the words in her mouth. “Surely I would remember…”

Lobelia shook her head, smiling. “No dear, it’s perfectly understandable. You’ve been a little unwell, and sleeping a lot. It’s normal that you might forget things or mix them up.” She was a perfect liar, a wonderful actress. Experience of playing the role of a content, satisfied housewife made her lies and falsehood undetectable. Bilbo despised her for her talents. “Don’t fret, my dear.”

Belladonna relaxed, her hard frown melting away. “I can’t believe I won’t be at the wedding.” She brooded, her expression pensive.

The woman hummed, a tiny pout crossing her lips, making all the sympathetic noises in the world. “It’s a shame, dear.” She sounded painfully genuine. “But the physician knows best, and we don’t want you to get any worse. What you have… you won’t get better, but he says we can keep you comfortable. You’ll be missing the wedding, but perhaps you’ll be able to meet Bilbo’s partner another time.”

“I hope so.” Belladonna turned her gaze back to her son, and squeezed his hand reassuringly. The familiar, soothing gesture helped. “Where does the boy live?”

“It’s a…he’s a dwarf, mother.” Bilbo supplied. “If they accept me I’ll be going to live with them.”

“Which they will.” Lobelia said offhandedly, in a way that seemed encouraging, but she turned her gaze to the hobbit, her gaze dark and cruel. Otho grunted from his place in the corner.

The surprise was evident on Belladonna’s face. Her mouth slacked, and her eyebrows arched. “A dwarf? You’re going to be engaged to a dwarf?”

“Yes.” Lobelia took control of the conversation, her smile sunny. “It’s that amazing? He’s going to Erebor with them- how…exotic! Imagine the dwarven kingdom, how beautiful it would be.”

Bilbo hated that idea, and he knew Lobelia did too. A hobbit wasn’t meant for the Lonely Mountain. From what very little he knew, mostly tales from travellers who passed through the Shire on the market days, everything in Erebor was cold, hard stone. The halls were huge from the dwarves, even bigger for the shorter, stouter hobbits. The kingdom was more of a warren than a home, a mix of halls and bedrooms and mines, with precious jewels and rare minerals still imbedded in the walls. It sounded like a prison, a cage. A gilded and beautiful cage, yes, but it wasn’t a home for a hobbit. Bilbo wondered if, when there, he would ever feel the sun on his skin or anything other than stone or marble under his feet.

Belladonna chuckled. “It sounds like you’re going on an adventure of your own!” She told him. “I would like nothing more than to go with you. I wonder what Erebor is like.”

“It’s a beautiful place, full of riches and incredibly well defended.” Lobelia fed her all the information she wanted. “Bilbo will be happy there, we know it.”

Liar,

Bilbo wanted nothing more than to stand up and howl. _Liar! You don’t care about any happiness other than your own- all you want is Bag End, it’s all you’ve ever wanted._ But he transmuted his rage, into something passive, but still aggressive. “I wonder who will inherit Bag End when I’m gone.” He wondered, even though the answer was painfully obvious.

Lobelia was silent for a second, but she served him another burning glare, promising retribution. “Well,” She managed to keep her voice clear of fury, her tone sweet and caring. “we’ll be inheriting it, dearest.” She reached forward to pat his hand too, but he hadn’t the bravery to pull away like his mother did. He felt rigid and frozen. “But don’t worry.” Her cold fingers curled around his, and her nails scratched unbearably at his own pliant skin. “If you ever need to come back home, for any reasons, we’ll be sure to give it back you.” She smiled, but her bared teeth were an unnatural white against her pink lips, and her pale, light eyes were dishonest.

Liar.

The deep, growl like clearing of Otho’s throat captured their attention, and when they turned, he nodded towards the grandfather clock, still ominously ticking away. Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat.

“It’s time to go.” He said, his voice rough. “We don’t wanna be late. First impressions, and all that.”

Lobelia’s nails clawed into his, and she beamed, eagerly sitting to attention. “Excellent,” She jumped off of the bed, her multiple bracelets jangling. “Let’s just get Bilbo all neatened up again, and we can go and meet him.”

Sucking in a breath as his chest seemed to contract, he gripped his mothers hand like a lifeline. It reminded him of his childhood, when as a youngling he would be scared by the most ridiculous things. He would clutch the hand of whichever parent was closer and huddle to them until whatever it was that spooked him went away. He was a grown hobbit now, and such behaviour was below him, but he supposed that the feelings of safety around his omniscient mother never really went away.

“I’m going to have to go now.” He murmured to her, trying to hide the way his voice quivered. “I think this might be the last time you see me.” He resisted the urge to satisfy the itch that his circlet caused, instead lacing his fingers together. He sighed, almost shuddering. “I don’t… I have to admit, I’m terrified. I don’t… I don’t want to meet my husband.”

She blinked up at him, tilting her head to one side. “Your husband?”

Bilbo’s shoulders slumped, defeated, and a mixture of frustration, pity and exhaustion welled up inside him. The words were simple, but they made him feel so alone. She looked so innocent. “Yes, mother. My husband.”

Otho grunted out something incomprehensible, and grabbed his wrist, not bothering to even pretend to be gentle. He tugged at his arm impatiently.

“Don’t worry,” Bilbo tried to smile and pulled away from Otho, moving to lean over the bed. He rested a hand on his mother’s head, brushing several strands of hair out of her eyes and he pressed one last, gentle kiss to her forehead. If some of his tears wet her forehead, she didn’t notice. “I’ll write often.” He promised, and rested his forehead against hers for a split second, closing his eyes and struggling to remain in control. “I love you, mother. Don’t forget me.”

With that, he made himself back away, allowing himself to be tugged out of the room by Otho. Loeblia bustled ahead, chattering loudly, while Belladonna watched them go, uncertainty etched on her face.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Lobelia ran a hand brush down, neatening his hair as she hummed. It smoothed his wild curls down, gliding effortlessly through- until it caught a knot, right at the back of his head. Lobelia tugged at it, indelicately, and Bilbo winced at the yanking sensation, tears forming in his eyes at the pain. But she kept on humming, and he had managed to perfect a bored, practically lifeless expression. She finished with his hair, and placed the hair brush to one side.

She fawned over him, just like his mother would have, should have done. She eyed him up and down, straightening his beige waistcoat and carefully correcting the collar of his white shirt. She brushed a few honey coloured locks out of his eyes, her touch gentle, but her hands cold and uncomforting. The woman settled the circlet back on his head, it’s thread still antagonizing his scalp. She grinned, satisfied with the end product. Bilbo, who had been pushed down into a chair just in front of a mirror, was less than happy. He looked made up, fake, and the ridiculously puffy sleeves of his shirt and the circlet made him look like a fool.

Lobelia bustled around him for a few more seconds, making some tiny changes to microscopic faults that Bilbo was sure no one else would notice, before settling behind him, standing behind his left shoulder and resting both her hands on his head lightly as to not disturb the circlet.

“Perfect.” She drawled, before smiling wickedly and leaning over to his right ear. “Now, we want you to do well,” She murmured to him, her warm breath almost burning his ear. “We want him to want you. If not…” Her hand snaked up to his ear, and her flawless painted nails caught the pointed tip, pinching it hard. Bilbo struggled to keep in his gasp, his blank expression remaining. “If not, we’ll be sure to make your mother’s life a living hell. Do you want that, Bilbo?”

He stared into his reflection, his sight blurry and eyes glowing with unshed tears, and he shook his head. “No.” He told her.

Her smile only widened, her lips stretched so tightly they became pale with lack of blood. “Good.”

-o-o-o-o-o

It was a warm summer night, and the air was thicker than usual. It was a hot summer, one of the warmest in years, and the days were unnaturally boiling whilst the nights were sweltering. The crops were being effected quite badly, with less produce surviving and making it to the markets, but despite the peaceful nature and history of the hobbits, they had suffered before, and Bilbo knew they could persevere.

He followed the Sackville-Bagginses out of the great green door, feeling the rough stone of the path against his bare feet. He padded down the path and through the gate. He glanced to his right, and he could see a golden glow in the distance, illuminating the darkness. He could see lanterns and the roof tops of tents, and could hear the rough cries of strangers, voices he didn’t recognise and the language he knew nothing of. The new arrivals, goodness knew how many there were, had been gifted with the temporary use of a farmers field. That was were the livestock usually grazed, but for the next week they had been moved to give the group enough space- and to keep them as far away as possible from the hobbits. Bilbo had heard stories about them, all about how they almost trampled a few innocent hobbits on the way down to the market with their heavy leather boots, about how all of them spoke in this brutish sounding language, and how they all bore weapons- but even he had heard the noise they made each night. He heard the yelling and the cries, the cheers and the roars, seemingly always of defiance and rage. They were such a loud, angry group of people, completely alien to the Shire. Each night he lie awake, wondering if one of those voices was the one that belonged to his potential husband.

But tonight, that was not where they were headed, and for that Bilbo was grateful. Instead, after leading him out the gate like a spooked horse to water, Lobelia and Otho took him to the left. He was glad to turn his back on the field- but not so eager to turn his back on his home. He sucked in a breath, and loosened it in a shudder, nerves twisting in his belly with a renewed vigour. He took one more breath, lowering his gaze to the floor, and by the time he eased it out his home was already behind him. His past lay behind him as his future lay dormant before him.

He followed the path the Sackville-Bagginses laid out for him, hating every second of it, but recognising his journey as a necessity. He eased out his breaths, struggling to keep his nerves. He barely managed to contain them, but he took pride in the fact he could. He calmed himself by taking in the feel of faint, cool wind on his face and the feel of the dirt underneath his feet. It felt natural, and it helped him.

Lost in his thoughts, he very nearly walked straight into Otho’s back as the hobbit halted, his soft conversation with his wife trailing off. He turned back, towards Bag End, his squashed face narrowed with confusion. Frown lines were deep slashes on his wrinkled forehead.

“Can you hear that?” He spoke gruffly, tone thickened with confusion. Lobelia slowed, turning back to the two. Displeased at the interruption, she scowled and put her hands on her broad hips.

“Do you mind?” Her voice was a growl. “We’re going to be late if we dally. We need to make a good impression-”

Otho hushed her, making a sharp gesture with one hand in her direction. She looked affronted, and there would likely be hell to pay later, but she fell silent. All the group could hear now was the soft breeze, whispering through the lush grass of the fields surrounding them and rustling the hedges. A patch of lilac petunias danced and bobbed in the wind. The branches of a nearby tree swayed curiously. Bilbo could hear the faint noises from the Chief’s hall, not too far away now- shouted orders, sounds of delight, rambunctious laughter and cheers. It sounded like half the Shire had gathered already.

Bilbo frowned. “I don’t hear anything unusual.”

“Shut up.“ Otho snapped. Meekly, Bilbo obeyed. Silence reigned, and the small group of hobbits listened as intently as they could, picking every noise they heard apart and struggling to place their sources. Otho snarled in frustration. “Where is that blasted noise coming from?” He turned towards his wife, back to Bilbo, then to his wife once more. “I don’t… What _is_ that?”

Lobelia huffed, and tsk’d with impatience. “I don’t hear anything.”

The two began to bicker, uncomfortably loud in the quiet of the night. Bilbo shuffled where he stood, the third wheel as the married couple snapped at each other, trading venomous insults. _How joyous marriage seems to be,_ he thought bitterly. He considered taking control and urging them to continue- as long as he worded it politely, Lobelia wouldn’t be too angry- but then, Bilbo finally heard it.

It was a soft but thunderous sound, rising in volume, seeming to grow closer and closer and the seconds ticked by. Yells, too, brusque and rough voices calling out over the noise. “I hear it.” He announced, and despite Lobelia’s grumbles, they ceased to speak. He raised a hand which he was proud to say only trembled minutely, his many bracelets clicking faintly, and pointed past his companions, towards the hall. “It’s coming from over there.”

Otho and Lobelia pivoted in almost perfect unison towards their destination, twin frowns on their faces. The female, for all her bravery and harsh attitude was hesitating, her concern clear. In turn, her husband was still scowling, his face unfriendly and ugly, but even he looked concerned. The noise, which Bilbo now recognised as an uncoordinated mess of hoof beats on the hard ground was growing worryingly close. There was also shouting, very much like the noises Bilbo heard from the camping field every night. Each of the hobbits hovered uselessly, all clearly uneasy, having never dealt with horses before.

“I thought we were going to meet the…guests at the hall.” Lobelia managed to say, her tone thick and heavy with distaste, when light bloomed where Bilbo had pointed, when they saw the ponies. They were cantering towards them, and as soon as the riders spotted them, the cries only rose in volume.

Otho immediately grabbed his wife, his huge paw like hand closing around her wrist, and he pulled her close. They both grew even more pale and wide eyes, and Bilbo couldn’t contain a panicked yelp, ducking behind the two.

Thankfully, the ponies were forced to slow, and they managed to trickle to a steady halt as the riders- the first dwarves they would ever see- reached the tiny group of unnerved hobbits. The shouting dropped, fading until it reached silence. The dwarves remained close to one another, forming and huddling in a loose semicircle. Bilbo struggled not to look at them, instead taking in the appearance of their ponies. Intimidated by their presence, he didn’t want to look at them all and be left wondering which may be his husband.

“I…We…!” Lobelia, stunned, was lost for words for what could have been the first time in her life. She took a swift step backwards, craning her neck up to take in the sight of the new arrivals.

One dwarf that sat in the middle of the semicircle, a dark eyed male, swung with ease off his pony, handing his reins to another nearby dwarf. He turned to Bilbo, and he immediately looked him up and down analytically. He hesitated, but after a long moment smiled faintly at him.

“I’m guessing by your clothing that you must be Master Boggins,” He said in way of greeting, and he swooped into a low, surprisingly graceful bow for one so…stocky. His hat managed to stay attached to his head, defying all logic. “Bofur, at your service.”

Bilbo stared at him, nonplussed, taking in the sight of his first dwarf. He was bigger than them- against Bilbo standing at three foot, quite a respectable height for a hobbit, Bofur must have been four and a half feet, perhaps even five. His body mass seemed thick much like a hobbit, but he was stocky too, seeming to be built from more muscle than simple fat, but it was difficult to tell under the many layers he wore. He had a huge, worn looking brown overcoat, made from leather and wool, and knitted gloves and massive fur boots tied to his feet. It was odd, he thought- Bilbo felt he was almost roasting in his much lighter clothes, and yet the heaps of heavy fabric he wore didn’t seem to bother Bofur. His face was pale rather than flushed, and he was smiling, maintaining polite eye contact. His hair, which he had an alarming amount of, was dark and wiry, and his ochre coloured eyes seemed to gleam with permanent humour. Bilbo would have guessed he might have been a lovely gentle dwarf, but he was too terrified of the intimidating amount of dwarves and ponies to greet him like a friend. “B-Bilbo Baggins, at yours.” He managed weakly. If Bofur noticed his mistake, he didn’t look abashed.

Lobelia demanded their attention by squawking in alarm, surveying the dwarves with panicked eyes. “I thought we were to meet at the Chief’s hall? What are you doing here?” She demanded to know, her graces and manners abandoned.

Bofur bowed his head apologetically, his dark eyes shinning. “A thousand pardons, Mistress. The King grew restless- he wanted to see what you had to offer him.”

Bilbo’s hands curled into fists, clenching subtly. His nails dug into the sensitive flesh of his palms, but were not long enough to cause bleeding. _A king._ He hardened his heart and grit his teeth. He was not an offering, not a gift. He wasn’t an inanimate object, like a piece of meat or a precious metal. He wanted to speak up- but he remembered the sale, remembered his mother, and knew he had to be perfect. He fought to right himself, to unclench his jaw and ease his fingers back out. He straightened his back, perfecting his posture and held his chin up, keeping his gaze steady. _Perfect. A perfect partner for the king._

Many hobbits would have dreamed of marrying a king. He knew Lobelia herself had disillusioned herself with these dreams when she was very young, and had been bitter ever since her engagement to Otho. He would have gladly traded places with any of them. Knowing he was to be married to a king and would be paraded in front of the dwarves only made everything worse.

Lobelia shifted uneasily where she stood, but made no further complaint. Aware she was in the presence of a king, although she didn’t know who, she plastered a pretty smile on her face- but Bilbo could see through it at a glance. “Of course,” She spoke softly, nearly crooning. “Bilbo here is the only son of the Chief of The Shire, Belladonna Baggins, famously known here. I hope you‘ll find him,” Her lips curled up even further, into a mischievous grin. “To your liking.”

Bofur dipped his head towards Bilbo, respectfully. “Step forward.” He told him, very nearly a command, but more of a request. The hobbit was grateful for that, at least. The dwarves behind him shifted in their seats, sharing glances and grins, some chuckling low in their throats and some murmuring comments to their neighbours. Their ponies twitched too, infected with their rider’s excitement. One whinnied quietly and another blew air from it’s nostrils, shaking its head. A bay coloured pony nipped at the ear of a palomino, playfully. Another stepped forward, emerging from the throng, it’s tail swishing and it’s head kept low. It stepped forward until it stood beside Bofur, facing the right, treading into the soft ground in a nervous fashion. Bilbo sympathised.

At Bofur’s command, the hobbit took delicate baby steps towards the pony, hoping his terror wasn’t obvious. He could feel himself trembling and he felt ill, and he prayed he wouldn’t humiliate himself. Dry heaving at the king’s ponies’ feet wouldn’t have made the best of impressions.

The creature danced on the spot, it’s hooves heavy on the concrete ground, whinnying loudly in the darkness. It snorted lowly, and it’s rider reached out a large hand, flattening his palm against the tense cords in it’s neck. It calmed considerably, halting and standing much stiller. Bilbo stared up at the rider, but he was almost impossible to see, bathed in shadow. Then, Bofur backed away towards another one of the riders, a surprisingly handsome blonde who surveyed Bilbo cautiously, and accepted a bright lantern from him. He held it up as high as he could- not very, but higher than a hobbit would have managed- and kept a respectful distance away from Bilbo and the stranger.

Light washed over his calming horse, letting the short auburn hair and the soft bronze mane shine. The light played over the rider’s face and clothing, casting twisted shadows along the ground. Soon, Bilbo was distracted, his attention rapt on the face of his potential suitor.

The man seemed to be perpetually glowering- although his dark eyebrows were not knit and there was no scowl on his face, Bilbo felt that he was displeased or disappointed. He hoped it wasn’t with him- but he couldn’t tell. His face was fierce, his features sharp and his lips thin. His eyes were cold, and as pale blue as glaciers. His long, flowing hair was the colour of a raven’s feathers, but there were lines of silver intermixed. Two thick, heavy braids hung on each side of his face, held together with silver beadlike clasps. One large, rough looking hand grasped the reins, and he had what looked like a riding crop clutched in the other. He was bundled up warmly in the night and also showed no discomfort at the heat, and while the finery of his clothes showed his leadership it remained a much needed practically- heavy looking boots with metal toes, steel armour on his chest, a thick fur coat closed with an intricate metal belt, set with a beautiful gem.

But Bilbo wasn’t wholly concerned with his clothing. He stared directly into his face, unabashedly, all shame gone. However, the grating fear was still there, and he wondered what this king thought of him, so small and much softer than any of his dwarves companions. He wondered if they were staring at him too, appraising him like they would a object at an auction. He wanted to check, but he found he couldn’t look away. The dwarves leader stared down, his gaze perfectly steady and piercing. The light in the lantern flickered, and the shadows shifted on his face. He was handsome, ridiculously so, and the minimal light gave him a air of mystery. Bilbo could have laughed. It was like something out of a poorly written romance book, the ones his mother despised beyond all belief.

He wasn’t sure how long they stared for, but in the corner of his eye Lobelia began to fidget and Bofur huffed quietly, the light waving where his arm grew tired. Eventually, the game ended. The dwarven king edged in his seat and Bilbo tensed, waiting for the decision and the reaction he had dreaded for so long. But instead, the king kept his gaze locked onto the hobbit’s and kept his mouth closed as he yanked once on the reins. Obediently, the horse backed up, whickering once more. He wheeled the horse around to face Bilbo, and before the hobbit could take a startled step backwards he turned to ride back where he came, tearing his eyes away and setting off at a canter.

This disturbed the ring of dwarves around him, and spurred him into action. Bofur lowered the lantern, obviously relieved, and the blonde dwarf behind him shouted some command and sped after his king. The circle broke, and each dwarf raced off one by one, the brusque shouts resuming, this time without their rough, almost mocking laughter. Soon, only Bofur remained with his pony, a tiny smile on his face and his shoulder shaking with faint chuckles.

Lobelia’s eyes and mouth were equally wide, the female clearly stunned. She stared after the ponies, listening to the rowdy shouts filling the air once more. Otho looked as alarmed and displeased as she did, and he rounded on Bofur, who had bent to place the lantern on the floor, and was now attempting to remount his pony.

“Where’s he going?” He demanded, outraged. Bofur, after a few seconds struggle, managed to swing himself onto his mount. He brushed a hand along it’s mane reassuringly, petting gently.

“He’s going back to the camp.” The dwarf told them. “I’m not sure why he’s forsaking the feast, but the King does as he likes. Not sure if some of the others will be so happy about it.” He moved to lean down, stretching to reach for the lantern with extreme difficulty- but Bilbo got there first. He stepped forward, grasping the metal handle. He lifted it - it was lighter than he expected- and held it up for him to take. The metal of the lantern rattled and the flame inside waned, testifying to just how badly Bilbo’s hands were shaking. He hoped the dwarf wouldn’t notice, but he did. Seemingly taking pity, he gave him a reassuring grin, and dimples appeared on his cheeks.

“Thank you.” He said, lifting it once more. “Now, I’m off to that feast of yours- I think someone should tell them before the food goes to waste.”

“Did he like him?” Lobelia was frowning, her hands on her hips again. Her body was tensed with anticipation. “He didn’t say anything.”

Bofur laughed, and it was a relaxing, calming sound. The dimples only deepened, and it made him look charming. “Trust me,” He chortled. “If he didn’t like your little hobbit, we’d all know.” Lobelia relaxed with a short sigh, and a smile curled on her mouth. Otho grinned, letting out a satisfied grunt. Bilbo suffered a brief miasma of conflicting emotions. Horror and panic ruled as king and queen, but pride and pleasure ruled as regent. He wanted to scream, he didn’t want to go, but a pleased, flattered smile couldn’t help but tug and the corners of his lips. _He liked me. A king._

“I don’t know if he wants to wed Master Boggins,” Bofur directed these words towards Lobelia, and his eyes seemed a little less warmer when he addressed them. Too lost in their victory, the couple didn’t notice. “But I will come to you with his decision as soon as I can.”

Lobelia looked like a cat who swallowed the canary. “Thank you.” She drawled, her satisfaction clear. “His mother will be overwhelmed with pride.”

Bofur kicked his horse in the ribs, gently, and it stepped backwards, air billowing from it’s nose. He nodded once in Otho and Lobelia’s direction, but gave Bilbo a parting smile before he rode away.

As he watched Bofur canter towards the hall, he realised with a sinking feeling that he still didn’t even know his potential husband’s name.

-o-o-o-o-o-

With some effort, Bilbo excused himself as politely as he could manage, and left his relatives to their own devices. He may as well have simply disappeared with no excuse- too caught up in potential victory, they were too busy celebrating. When he padded away, trying to keep himself calm and clear headed, they were discussing what renovations they were going to make to Bilbo’s room and what they planned to add in the garden. It was a little premature, yes- but the dwarf king’s reaction and Bofur’s promising words inspired a confidence in the two.

The feast had looked like it had intended to be a bright, vibrant affair, as many hobbit celebrations commonly were. Everything was highly ornate, almost ridiculously so- there were beautifully bright flowers kept in glass vases on the tables and lanterns blazing everywhere, dotted on every table and hanging in every corner. The tables themselves, stretching from the entrance to the very back of the hall, were blatantly smaller tables pushed together despite the hobbit’s best attempts to hide this fact using the highest quality and most beautiful cloths they had. There was a table of honour, right at the back of the room, reserved for Bilbo, the Sackville-Bagginses and the Shire’s dwarven guests. There were so many seats, all the chairs barely squeezed together- everyone and their mother seemed to be invited. But none of them were in use- the only hobbits there were three aggravated looking fellows, sweeping around the room and gathering up the plates, and blowing out some of the excess lanterns. They all glowered at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Bofur must have been there already and explained the situation, and they must have somehow missed each other. Either way, he didn’t really care.

The air was rich with familiar scents, lemon and honey and spices. It made Bilbo’s mouth water, and he was suddenly aware of sharp pangs of hunger in his belly. He huffed out a sigh, rubbing at his face with one hand. He was sick of being scared. He had been terrified the last few days, dreading the day and anticipating the moment he would have to say goodbye to the Shire, and now his moment was done and now all he had to do was wait, the exhaustion was creeping up on him. His pleasure at being approved of was a welcome distraction- but the energetic, bubbly feelings this provided certainly wouldn’t last long. He stepped forward, and took the nearest seat he could, collapsing into the chair. Relief filled him and his body settled. He took the circlet off his head- finally- and dropped it to the floor carelessly. One of the hobbits, a blonde haired male that he didn’t recognise, stared at him from across the hall, collecting up glasses and cutlery.

“Are you alright?” He called over to him, cocking his head to one side like a curious puppy. The others didn’t stop what they were doing, but it was painfully obvious that they were listening attentively.

Hoping he wouldn’t crumble and fall to pieces, Bilbo smiled weakly. “Yes, I’m fine.”

The blonde hesitated. “You don’t look fine.”

He didn’t feel fine, not in the least. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into a bed, any bed, and sleep until the world rotted away. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you. But I’d appreciate it if you’d bring me some of the wine meant for the party.”

He did so. He came back with a glass of some unrecognizable red, and by his own initiative, a bowl of thick, steaming stew. The boy seemed to be brimming with questions, presumably about what happened with the dwarves, and his eyes were locked onto the circlet he unceremoniously dumped on the floor- but asking would be terribly rude. So instead, he assumes. Bilbo could see the sympathy in his eyes as he took the moping behaviour as the actions of someone who had been refused. He bowed his head to him, and left him without a word.

Bilbo swirled his wine in his glass, taking several deep breaths. He took only one sip, and found the liquid to be tasteless. The wine was a deep and rich red, likely cherry or possibly plum, but the flavour was undetectable in Bilbo’s mouth. He wasn’t one for wine on the best of days, and now it turned his stomach. He considered trying the bowl, recognising his hunger, but he swirled it with a spoon and took a delicate sniff- and nearly retched. He left both the wine and food mostly untouched.

As time passes, the shy euphoria he felt is slowly replaced with dread, which, in turn, is replaced by numbness.

He sits for hours, lost in his thoughts and listening to the sounds of the dwarves’ camp until the dawn, when his companions are long gone, the tables are clear and the light is streaming through the windows. He hears a lark sing, but he takes no joy in it. It takes time, but the Shire begins to stir and awaken. Hobbits begin to crawl out of their beds, and after their morning rituals then wander into the sunlight, greeting each other politely and conversing with their neighbours, waiting for second breakfast to come. Bilbo couldn’t believe he skipped so many meals- his stew was practically untouched and stone cold. He knew he needed to eat, but he simply didn’t want too. He knew he’d likely bring it straight back up anyway.

He’s not sure what he’s doing, still sitting there, wasting his time. He could have gone back to the Shire, seen his mother like he knew he wanted too. But he thinks that he couldn’t face her innocent questions and blank eyes. Currently, he has no plan. Simply sitting, wallowing in his own newborn misery seems good enough- so that is exactly what he does.

Lost in his own little word, distancing himself from reality, he only dimly notices the noise of the hall’s creaking door being pushed open, and hears the noise of bustling around the hall. There is the soft padding of feet, the sign of a hobbit’s presence, but there are heavy footsteps too, and what sounds like thick rubber soles thudding on the wooden floor. The only people in the Shire currently who would wear boots would be…

Those heavy footfalls ceased, and Bilbo became suddenly aware of a presence before him.

He looked up to find the dark eyed dwarf- Bofur, he recalls- steps away from him, smiling down at him in the way an old friend would. It’s inappropriate, but it cheers him, and Bilbo can’t find it in himself to chastise him. Some hobbits, different ones from the night before, work around him, gossiping to themselves quietly.

Bilbo fumbled with his nowhere near empty glass and his untouched and now freezing cold stew. “Good morning, Bofur.” He absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair, feeling harsh knots catch on his fingers. He tugged at his clothes, trying to straighten them with one hand. “Can I help you?”

What are you here for? It can’t be an answer. It’s far too soon.

Bofur, reassured by his welcome, took a step closer. “I went to your home, Bag End, not long ago- I lost my way twice- and your relatives told me you never came home.” He shrugged, and his smile became bashful. “This was the only place I could think that you’d be. To be fair, it’s one of the three places in the Shire that I know. This is a beautiful place, by the way.”

Bilbo couldn’t keep the proud smile at bay. “Thank you.”

Bofur only nodded his head in response, smiling wistfully to himself. Bilbo wanted to ask about his own home- he knew nothing of dwarves- but some dismal air around the dwarf made him feel that it wouldn’t be appropriate, or welcomed. Instead, he kept quiet and lowered his eyes, curling a hand around his cup and staring into the pool of red.

Eventually, Bofur spoke up. “You know why I’m here?”

The hobbit faltered. “I think so.” He manages. “But I thought this discussion would take much longer.”

The dwarf shrugged. “So did I,” he admitted. “My king is not one for rash decisions. He likes to think on things, long and hard, with the advice of his companions. His verdict on you took no time at all, and he refused to hear the counsel of his blood riders.”

Shaking off his first immediate thoughts- _oh Valar, he accepted me,_ and _what in Middle Earth is a blood rider?-_ he forced a pleased smile and tried to hide the way his grip on his glass tensed. “I’m pleased that he found me so satisfactory.” He lied.

Bofur’s muddy brown eyes shone. “He said that you were surprisingly fair for a hobbit. Many who had the pleasure of seeing you agreed.” Before Bilbo could answer with some false gratitude and a dazzling but fake smile, Bofur took another step forward until he stood directly in front of the table. He stared the hobbit straight in the eyes. It was considered highly impolite to do so in The Shire, but Bilbo could hardly scold a creature of another culture for their mistake. He hoped the dwarves would show him the same kindness and courtesy.

“Bilbo Boggins,” Bofur began, his expression deadly serious and his tone suddenly formal. “Would you give the King Under The Mountain the honour of taking you as his consort?”

The hobbit smiled, and he forced himself to keep it until his cheeks ached. _I’m a Baggins,_ he told himself. _Of Bag End. My mother is a Took, and partly, so am I._ He pushed down on the misery and the apprehension, forcing it in the deepest darkest part of him.

“Can you at least tell me his name before I give my answer?” Bilbo managed to keep himself from begging, managing to cling to the tattered remains of his pride. He made his voice sly and playful, ignoring how foolish he felt. He had a firm grip on the fragile stalk of his wine glass, and he hoped it wouldn’t snap.

“Thorin Oakenshield.” Bofur informed him. “Son of Thráin. Son of Thrór. The King Under The Mountain.” Bofur’s own kind of pride lit up his features, and he couldn’t help but grin. “He is a good leader- not particularly inspiring, I’ll admit, but he is courageous and strong.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.” Bilbo jested faintly, and Bofur laughed. He had an easy laugh, natural and kind. The hobbit liked it. But his smile had a fixed quality to it, and it seemed strained.

“Please don’t.” Bofur shot back playfully, but when their laughter died silence was born. Bilbo shifted in his seat, lowering his eyes to the mahogany of the table. To serve as a distraction, he picked at a loose splinter with a nail. He heard a soft sigh, and the low noise of cloth rubbing against itself. Then Bofur’s hands appeared on the table, large and worn, covered with calluses and light streaks of dirt. The dwarf leant towards him, pushing his weight onto the table. Bilbo looked up, somewhat startled.

“I saw it, you know.” He said, quite matter-of-factly, but Bofur spoke gently, as if he were trying to calm a distressed animal, his warm but serious eyes locked onto Bilbo’s. “The pressure your family was putting on you- the way they seemed to eager to show you off to my king.” Unnerved by the sudden change in his tone and severity of the situation, Bilbo dropped his head meekly and averted his eyes, suddenly incredibly interested in the splinter once more. “I want you to give me your answer- the one _you_ want to give.”

Riled, Bilbo lifted his head and glared at him. He scratched at the table, and the splinter came loose. It narrowly avoided sliding into his skin. “My answer is my own.”

He didn‘t need to look to hard to see the disbelief. “Your family are not here to pressure you.” Bofur said soothingly. He pulled back a little, getting Bilbo more space to breathe. “I want to know what you think and what you want. Not what your cousins want.”

“My cousins told me this match would be,” It took him a few cautious seconds to find an appropriate word. “beneficial to us all. And that I should accept.”

Bofur barked out a laugh, and his dark eyebrows rose. His smile became mocking. “Do you always do what your cousins tell you?”

Anger bubbled up deep inside and brimmed to his surface. Bilbo scowled, his hands clawing on the table. Bofur must have seen the consuming darkness cross his face- he kept chortling quietly, but he backed away, lifting his hands in a submissive gesture.

“I do, yes.” Bilbo almost spat at him, his voice venomous. “When it’s necessary.”

“Okay.” Bofur waved his hands slightly for emphasis, still laughing. _You win,_ he seemed to say. _That’s enough, I get it._ “Then what do you say?”

For all his bravery, everything that let him growl and glare, Bilbo faded. His fierceness disappeared like a snuffed out candle. “I….”

Bofur’s smiles brought him comfort and the dwarf seemed kind- he was the complete opposite to what Bilbo expected of a dwarf. But considering the attitude of the king, this fiancé of his, and the rest of the company Bilbo had seen Bofur was gentle dwarf one in a million. In no way did Bilbo want to be wed to him, and be taken away to the Lonely Mountain and kept there like a treasure or a trophy. The thought of being married to him made his heart clench and his stomach queasy.

But the thought of this Thorin Oakenshield, even with his cold eyes and oppressive gaze, didn’t scare him as much as the thought of his mother hurt by the Sackville-Bagginses did.

Bilbo hardened his heart, clearing his throat and pushing all his thoughts of him away, thinking of anything but his fiancé. “Yes.” His voice wavered, and he winced, cursing his own uselessness. “I accept.”

The reaction was automatic. Bofur beamed with delight, his brown eyes sparkling. “Excellent.” He moved forward, and for one dreadful moment Bilbo though he was going to pull him into a hug or ruffle his hair. He tensed up, willing himself not to flinch away- but Bofur ducked, instead disappearing under the table. Bewildered, the hobbit pushed his chair back with the awful sound of wooden legs scraping against a wooden floor. He heard a disgruntled noise from underneath the table.

“Careful,” He heard the dwarf mutter, and after a few seconds, he remerged. His hat was lopsided and he clutched something familiar in his huge, paw like hands. Something circular and powder blue. “You nearly crushed this moving your chair back.”

And what a shame that would have been,

Bilbo thought bitterly. This time, Bofur did reach out for his head, straightening the slightly crumpled circlet. There were a few petals missing from the forget-me-nots, but it was mostly unnoticeable. Bofur placed it carefully on his head, brushing his curls over the worst of the damage. The thread began to itch his scalp once more.

The dwarf stepped away, looking him up and down. He had a satisfied smile quirking on his lips, and he nodded in approval. “You look lovely, Master Boggins. I’m sure he’ll be most pleased to hear this answer.”

Remembering his strict courtesies, Bilbo bowed his head once, albeit stiffly. “Thank you.” His voice may have been a touch deadpan and somewhat lifeless, but Bofur took no notice. “I’m glad that I have pleased him. I look forward to seeing my fiancé again.”

“I will be organizing the date of the wedding with him,” Bofur promised him, pleased. “Considering just how quickly it took him to choose you, I wouldn’t be surprised if you wed just as fast.”

With that, Bofur bowed his head respectfully, and turned, clearly eager to get back to his king and relay the hobbits answer. If he had turned back before the heavy door swung shut in a way that was very final, he would have seen a defeated, exhausted young hobbit slump back down in his seat, choking back tears, and he would have heard the wine glass explode under his impossibly tight grip.

Blood warmed and slicked Bilbo’s palm, the glass cutting deep, but he didn’t feel a thing.


End file.
